


Save Me From Me

by eternaleponine



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [10]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Deleted Scene, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deleted scene showing Natasha's point of view on some of the events of Chapter 18 and 19 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/531381/chapters/942536">Ghosts That We Knew</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Me From Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



She stared into the flames of the tiny fire she'd kindled and waited for the warmth to reach her, but it didn't. She was cold down to her bones, Russian winter cold, cold as her heart.

No. Cold as _his_ heart.

Cold as the heart of the one person she'd trusted against all good judgment, against every instinct she had. She'd let him in and he'd made promises, and she'd _believed_ him even though she knew she shouldn't, even though the world had shown her over and over and over again that men lied, people lied, but especially men.

She'd thought he was different. She'd thought...

It didn't matter what she'd thought. He was gone now.

She'd called for him to wait, and he hadn't. He'd turned and run, kept running, never even hesitated. 

She would have explained. If he'd waited, if he'd stayed, she would have explained.

She would have tried to explain.

Or make some excuse.

Tell him it wasn't what he thought.

Because it wasn't.

Would he understand that? Could he? Did he know that it was possible to lie with your body as well as your words?

Would he believe her if she told him that she'd never lied to him?

But she had, hadn't she? She lied as easy as breathing. She lied to survive. 

But had she lied to him?

She didn't know. She couldn't remember, and it didn't matter anymore anyway, because he was gone, and the sooner she accepted that, the sooner she made peace...

No, there was no peace.

Not even in the flickering flames. Not even in the cold.

Lost in her own thoughts, she heard but didn't hear, footsteps approaching. 

Maybe it was an animal, but it sounded too big. There were no wolves here, were there? Maybe a dog. A dog wouldn't be afraid of fire like a wild animal would be. Or maybe it was her uncle, or maybe someone else with promises and demands.

He'd never asked anything of her. Never once asked for anything that she couldn't easily give, and because he'd never asked she'd given too much, let him in too deep, and he was under her skin and coursing through her veins like an infection. 

Even now. Even though he was gone, even though he'd run away, and it was his own fault he'd seen what he'd seen, only she didn't know, did she, couldn't be sure what he'd seen, what he thought he'd seen, had no idea what he thought he knew about her. 

He'd run, and then when he'd tried to come back she'd pushed him away, and it had been the right thing to do, but it hurt.

It hurt like nothing she'd ever known. 

And she was pretty well-educated when it came to pain. 

She drank to numb it, drank to drown the infected cells, and it had kept her warm for a little while – anger and alcohol were good for that – but now she was cold and someone or something was coming but it didn't matter. She rocked herself for the comfort no one had ever given her...

... except him, but no, forget that, 'Tasha, and forget _that_ , too, Natasha, forget all of it, _Natalia Romanova_ because it was done, gone, over with...

... and she shivered so hard she shook but she didn't notice. 

She didn't even feel it anymore, really, and that was good. 

She would start to feel warm soon. Wasn't that how it worked? You were cold until you were warm and then...

"Natasha?"

His voice. Damn it, his voice, and her eyes flooded and she blinked hard, told herself it was just smoke on the wind blown into her face, it wasn't anything, didn't mean anything. She was cold, Russian winter cold, and her heart was ice.

He wrapped his coat around her, and a blanket over that, and sat down beside her, close enough to touch, but not touching. "Natasha, what happened? What happened that night? I saw you—"

She could explain. She could try.

"You saw nothing," she said. Her voice was rough, raw, and every word scraped her throat as she forced it out. "You saw... you know nothing of what you saw."

"I know," he said. "I know. So tell me." His voice was soft and warm and if she'd looked at him she knew that he would be looking at her in that way he had that made it seem like he could look straight _through_ her, that look that scared her because he saw her, he _saw_ her, and she wanted so badly to fall into those eyes, into his arms, and... 

"No." She shook her head, buried her face against her knees so she wouldn't even be tempted to look. She'd pushed him away and he'd come back, but it had been the right thing to do, for him if not for her, but she didn't matter anymore, and anyway, he was a liar and he'd run and that was unforgivable. She was ice and he was fire and she had to keep him away. There was no place for him in her world, no place for them anywhere, and she'd only been deluding herself. "No, Clint."

"Natasha, I can't understand you if I can't see your face," he said. "Or if you don't sign."

Good. Good, that was good, that was better. He would get fed up and leave, and the ice would melt but not because of him, and she would be warm again and then...

His arm wrapped around her, started to draw her close, and she jerked away so she wouldn't give in. He was a liar. She had to keep telling herself that. He was a liar, he'd promised and he'd broken that promise, and if he was hurting it was no one's fault but his own and she didn't owe him anything. She had to push him away to keep him safe. 

"Don't," she said, looking up at him, trying to put the ice in her heart into her voice so he could hear it (but could he?) and her eyes so he could see it (but would he notice, or would he only see the tears that gathered there, and damn it, shouldn't they have frozen by now?). "Don't touch me."

Clint held up his hands, then closed one into a fist and placed it over his heart, moving it in a small circle. _Sorry._

"Stop!" Her voice cracked, and tears overflowed and she wiped them away furiously, hating him for trying to reach her when she was trying so hard to leave him, and knowing how to do it, knowing how to get through all of her walls so easily. "Stop it!" 

She had to get out, had to get away, had to end this now, end all of it _now_ because if she didn't...

She stood up, the jacket and blanket falling to the ground, and kicked dirt over the fire before finding the bucket of water they always kept nearby. There was a scrim of ice on top, but it cracked and gave way when she upended it, extinguishing the flames in a cloud of steam and smoke, and then she ran.

She ran like he'd run, only her feet were numb, her limbs heavy and thick so she stumbled clumsily and he caught up to her and grabbed her, his fingers circling her arms, holding tight. "You stop!" he said, and shook her when she tried to yank out of his grasp, tried to escape the warmth of him, the heat that could melt her resolve. She knew what she had to do, and he stood in her way, and damn him to hell for not waiting, and damn him again for coming back. "You're not running away this time. For once, I'm not letting you run away!"

But she had to. She had to run, had to get away, because finally she had the answer, finally she knew how to make it all go away, make it all stop, and he wasn't part of it. He was a liar, and he was here now but when she really needed him, he would run. Because that's what people did. 

And could she blame him, really? _She_ didn't want any part of her life; why should he get involved? He just had to let go, let her go, and then it would be all right. Then she could let go too. 

But he wasn't letting go. She got her hands up between them, shoved at his chest, clawed at his face, but he didn't let go, and he was calm somehow, almost...

... but not really, not quite...

No, he wasn't calm. He was scared, and she was scared, and she fought, she tried, but he got his arms around her, pinned them to her sides, held her, crushed her against his body and he didn't say anything, or if he did she didn't hear, and he was bigger than her, and stronger...

... but he was a liar...

... but he was here...

... and he was holding her...

... and not letting go...

It was hard to keep fighting when he wasn't fighting back. 

So she stopped. Not all at once, but little by little. 

Her breath puffed ghosts in front of her mouth, and the heat in her blood ebbed, escaping into the air, and slowly, slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, and then the fight was gone and her knees sagged.

They sank to the ground, and he held her there, cradled against his body. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Natasha." 

_No,_ she thought. _Don't be._ But the words didn't make it to her lips. No words did, for a long time, and he just held her, rocked her or maybe they were both just shaking, and now she could feel it again, feel it sinking through her skin and gnawing at her bones, but this time, this time she didn't welcome it.

"I'm cold," Natasha whispered. 

His arms tightened around her, but then he let her go, stood up, and her heart stopped beating for a moment, then restarted with a painful throb as he held out his hands to her. "Come on."

She took them, let him pull her up and put his coat around her, and when she couldn't get her fingers to work let him zip her up. When he started to walk away, she followed, three steps to his two until she caught up to him. 

She knew she shouldn't do it, knew that it was the worst thing she could do for both of them, because she knew it would feel good, knew it would feel right, and the last thing either of them needed was to start to believe (again) the lie they'd been telling themselves from the start.

Except Clint didn't know, did he, that it was a lie? Maybe he did now, but maybe he thought it didn't matter, but it was impossible for it not to matter, impossible for it not to come between them, tear them apart.

He'd seen nothing, nothing that even scratched the surface, and he'd run.

And he'd come back.

She'd pushed him away.

And he'd come back.

He'd reached out, held on, held tight.

Why?

She didn't know. 

But maybe she would find out.

She reached out, wrapped her fingers around his. They were cold. Hers were colder. 

She held on, held tight.

He tucked both their hands into the pocket of his hoodie. 

They kept walking.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't want to—"

"Don't. Please." She didn't want or need an apology. Not right now. Right now, she just wanted to know that she wasn't alone. 

He took her home – his home, not hers – and snuck her into the bathroom, let her shower to get warm, lent her pajamas to sleep in. She left the water running for him so that he could warm up too, sitting on the toilet with her knees drawn up and her eyes closed tight to give him privacy until they crept down the hall to his room. 

"I'll sleep on the floor," he said, making a place for himself with pillows and blankets, leaving the bed to her. She listened to his breathing, waiting for it to even out into sleep, but it didn't. One minute turned into ten, and they piled up in the silence between them and why had he done this, why had he come back, saved her when it would have been so easy to let her go, to just...

Had she gotten it all wrong? Had he changed his mind?

She started shaking and couldn't stop, and finally she pushed back the covers, got up and crawled under the blankets that covered him, pressing against his side because this was worse, worse even than the night after he'd run, because she'd thought then that there was no hope, but he'd come back, sparked it again, only to turn his back, and she couldn't do it. She couldn't be alone right now. Not when he was right there.

"Are you cold?" he asked. 

She shook her head. "I just..."

But he'd taken out his hearing aids, so he couldn't hear her. He touched her shoulder gently to make her look. _Sign, please._

She sat up, wringing her hands before she finally forced herself to shape the words that she'd been thinking at him since he'd turned off the lights, wishing he would hear somehow. _Come to bed. Please._

For a moment she thought he'd say no. For a moment, she thought she'd really gotten it all wrong, and he'd had some reason for doing what he'd done but it didn't have anything to do with actually wanting her, wanting what they'd had, back. 

But he picked up the blankets, put them back on the bed, waited for her to get in before settling beside her. He didn't wrap his arms around her, didn't touch her more than he had to, but maybe he thought she wouldn't want it, or maybe he just had nothing more to give, and could she blame him? 

The weight of him beside her, the warmth of him at her back, combined with everything that had led up to that moment, was enough to drag her down into fitful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For [CloudAtlas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas), who wanted to see Natasha's POV on one of the times Clint saved her.


End file.
